


False start

by Builder



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 20:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12261711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Spencer's not having a good morning.





	False start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cm1031SR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cm1031SR/gifts).



> This was a prompt from Tumblr (find me at Builder051). Migraine Spencer's an oldie but a goodie. If you have any better Reid Whump ideas, don't hesitate to hit me up.

The day starts off slow.  There’s just paperwork to do.  No new cases demand the BAU’s attention.  Most of the team is in Hotch’s office chuckling over a home video of Jack’s soccer game.  Only Spencer and Derek remain in the bullpen working.

 

Spencer shifts the folders on the desk in front of him, hoping his eyes and brain will perk up a little.  He moves the file on top to the bottom of the stack and glances at the next packet of documents.  That case was barely two weeks ago, but Spencer has to pause and organize his thoughts before he’s clear on the details.  Spencer flips the folder open and scans the first page.  It’s the ME’s report on the murdered woman, but the top left-hand corner of the page appears to be missing.  The edge looks jagged, and Spencer brings his fingers up to touch it.  He’s confused when he feels the paper, intact, and pierced with a staple.  Spencer shifts his head an inch to the side, and the visual disturbance moves with it, now tearing a chunk out of his mousepad.

 

“Fuck,” Spencer whispers under his breath, so quietly it just sounds like an exhale.  No wonder he’s tired and feeling cognitively slow.  There’s a migraine brewing.  Spencer drops his elbows to the table and presses between his eyes.  The slight pressure building in his sinuses had been nothing, only proof that autumn is in full bloom and that it may rain later.  Now, though, it’s a ticking time bomb. 

 

Spencer lets out his breath and watches the visual disturbance change shape slightly, now more of a guitar pick-like blob rather than an inverted triangle.  “You ok?” a voice says from behind him.

 

“Mm,” Spencer murmurs, swallowing, straightening up, and swiveling his chair to face Derek.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says.  “Just remembering some details to cross with the ME’s report before I sign off on this one.”

 

Derek raises his eyebrows slightly, signaling that he doesn’t completely buy Spencer’s explanation.  “You never have to try to remember anything,” Derek says.  “You lagging today?”  The tease is kindhearted, but it clearly masks concern.

 

“Haven’t had enough coffee yet,” Spencer replies, reaching for the mug sitting up in the corner of his desk.  Luckily, it’s to his right and out of the path of the aura, which is now shimmering around the edges. He sips the coffee, which is tepid and simultaneously overly bitter and overly sweet.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek says with a slight smile.  He taps the back of Spencer’s chair as he continues across the bullpen.  Spencer flinches slightly and drips coffee onto the open file. 

 

Spencer returns his attention to the ME’s report.  The woman died of blunt force trauma to the head. Skull smashed like a watermelon.  He perseverates on the mental image of her on the cold coroner’s table as he traces his finger down the page.  Spencer reaches the bottom, then realizes he hasn’t actually read any of it.  He returns to the top and scans the first couple of lines.  Female, 32, brown hair, yes, got that. The sparkling aura shifts over the next line, and Spencer squints to read through it.  Sustained w---… Spencer’s mental voice gives out as he stares at the letters, trying to make out the word.  The first letter is a w.  But what sound does that make? 

 

Spencer blinks hard and forces himself to refocus.  But now he’s lost is place on the page.  The aura has stolen almost all of his left visual field, and what he can see with his right eye is blurry.  “Fuck,” Spencer sighs again, still under his breath.  It’s as if his brain can’t find its way around any of the consonant sounds, though, and it comes out as a heavy, muddled “Uhh.”

 

Spencer suspends his head between his hands, elbows mashed into the hard desktop, and tries to maintain an upright position as the room seems to shift slightly in his right-eye periphery.  He instinctively tilts left to counteract the perceived movement and elbows a few sheets of paper onto the floor.  Latent vertigo catches up, and dizziness assails him.  Nausea follows, subtle at first, but rushing up toward severe.  Someone says his name, but they sound far away.

 

Spencer swallows hard and tries to get his bearings.  He can’t tell if he’s upright.  Something hit the floor, but he’s not sure what, and regardless, he isn’t moving his body to get it.  He was trying to read something, but he can’t recall what it was.  It started with a letter whose name he can’t remember and whose sound he doesn’t know how to vocalize. 

 

An immense, throbbing pain hits Spencer between the eyes and emanates into his nasal cavity.  It zig zags up his face, bouncing across both temples and settling in his forehead at his hairline.  The nausea swells and Spencer involuntarily gags.  He instinctively drags one hand over his mouth, leaving him unbalanced and listing to one side. 

 

“Oh my god, Spencer!” An urgent and slightly shrill voice sounds.  Footsteps race toward him, shaking the floor, the desk, the air.  Spencer retches, and warm, foul tasting liquid drips between his fingers.  Strong hands find his shoulders and force his body upright in his chair.  His spatial orientation catches up, intensifies the dizziness, and causes him to jerk forward and vomit. 

 

“Alright, Reid,” Derek’s miraculously calm voice says as he supports Spencer forward.  “It’s ok.  Here’s your trash…”  There’s a slight crinkling sound as his desk trash is edged in front of him. 

 

Spencer takes a deep, gasping breath and wills himself not to retch again.  He tries to tell Derek that he’s fine, and to leave him alone, but all he can force out are a couple of random, disconnected syllables.  “I—‘s…d—.”  The lower half of his face feels heavy and numb, and Spencer barely feels his body contract as he heaves into the trash can. 

 

“It’s ok; don’t try to talk,” Derek says. 

 

The other, higher voice starts up a stream of worried chatter.  “Oh my god.  What’s wrong?  Is he ok? Should I call an ambulance?  What can I do?”  Spencer recognizes the voice, but its owner’s identity comes in a collection of impressions and images rather than a name.  Tech…pink… glasses…  He hardly has time to breathe before he gags again and begins coughing.

 

“Just…hold up,” Derek says, patting Spencer’s shoulder.  “It’s ok, pretty boy, just breathe.” 

 

Spencer tries.  He gasps a couple times and breaks off into hacks.  The motion shakes his entire body, ratcheting up the explosive pain in his head and unsettledness in his stomach.  Spencer bites back the threat of another heave, and tries to shuffle his thoughts into something coherent.  Aphasia is always intense and short-lived, and he thinks he may be able to speak now.

 

“I’m…ok,” He chokes.  “Just… I don’t feel good.”  The retch on the tip of his tongue rises up and out, and bile courses down, catching Derek’s sleeve before hitting the trash can and making the plastic lining fold in on itself.

 

“Do you think…another trash bag?” Garcia asks, and Spencer pathetically congratulates himself on remembering her name. 

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Derek murmurs.  “Enough of a mess already.”

 

“Sorry,” Spencer breathes, pressing his hands over his face and ignoring the resulting stickiness.

 

“Not your fault, kid,” Derek reassures.  “Migraine, right?”

 

“Yeah.”  It’s a sad sigh.

 

“Don’t worry about it.  It’s not something you can control.”  A paper towel seems to materialize from thin air, and Derek swipes it over his arm before passing it into Spencer’s shaking hands.  “Here, let’s get you cleaned up a little bit.  Then you’re so being sent home.”

 


End file.
